Bespelling Jane Austen

by Mary Balogh

  Augusta interrupted with an elvish tinkling laugh that set my teeth on edge. “Oh, honey, it’s a fabulous opportunity. I’ve told him all about you and—”

  “I’ll think about it,” Jane said.

  “Let’s have lunch soon. I’m really concerned that you haven’t been making the right sort of contacts.” This with a nasty look at me.

  “Jane, come and say Hi to Knightley.” I zipped up my makeup purse.

  She gave me a cool glance. “Maybe later, Emma.”

  “Okay.” Thinking the two of them probably deserved each other, I joined Knightley outside.

  He handed me my glass. “Mostly elves and vamps. I don’t know how many of your clients are here.”

  “I met Jane Fairfax in the bathroom. Augusta is trying to get her to take a job with some senator.”

  “You should make friends with her. She doesn’t need to hang out with someone like Augusta.”

  “I don’t think she likes me very much. I don’t know that she likes anyone much.”

  “I guess you know Frank Churchill’s leaving town,” he said, a little too casually.

  “Yes, he’s going back to L.A.”

  “Are you okay with that?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good. I always thought he had a thing for Jane.”

  “Jane?” I stared at him. “I don’t think so. She doesn’t even like vamps.”

  “Didn’t you notice the way they looked at each other? She used to live in L.A., too.”

  “It’s a big place.” He was kidding. Jane Fairfax? “I thought you had the hots for Jane.”

  “She’s nice enough,” he said. “But a bit tight-lipped. I took her out to dinner the other night and she didn’t have much to say.”

  “That’s normal if Missy was talking all the time.”

  “Missy wasn’t there.”

  And then I got it. Knightley had had a date date with Jane and the realization made me feel odd, even though I’d joked about him being attracted to her. I remembered the way he’d smiled at her when we went to see the new car.

  We entered the party room, which had an entirely different atmosphere from Hartfield’s mixers. Magic was thick in the air, and waiters circulated with drinks that sparked and smoked. Vamps lurked with blatantly exposed fangs. Elves shimmered with danger and beauty, and as we entered, a couple of females approached Knightley, tossing back their manes of gorgeous blond hair.

  I grinned. “Looks like you’ll be busy. I’m going to take a look around.”

  He winked at me.

  I made my way through the room and looked for current clients.

  “Ah, a sweet little witch,” a vampire crooned.

  “She is bitten,” another commented. “But not taken.”

  In other words, I was a slut who put out for vampires. My vamp clients would know, too, although I hoped they would never be so crass as to mention it to me.

  “Come play with us.” An elf stroked my arm.

  “No, thanks. Hey, do elves like blonde jokes? I have a really funny one—” He snarled and turned away.

  I placed my empty wineglass on a tray and looked around to see what Knightley was up to. He was at a table with a female elf draped all over him and a female vamp, fangs bared, on his other side. He had a big stupid grin on his face.

  In front of him was a goblet of one of the sparkly blue drinks, half-full.

  I hoped he knew what he was doing. I made my way through the room, noticing that most of the crowd were vamps and elves, with a few witches and wizards—not a werewolf or naiad or dryad in sight. In other words, Elton and Augusta were after an elite, powerfully magic clientele, and so far, none of my clients had bitten (so to speak).

  That could change, however. I resolved to do more targeted promotion to vamps and elves.

  Swatting away a few heavy-breathing vamps, I returned to Knightley’s table. “Are you ready to leave?”

  His eyes were heavy-lidded and sleepy. He blinked at me.

  “Knightley!”

  “Ignore her,” cooed one of the vamps at the table—he’d accumulated another one during my trip across the room.

  I resorted to a spell that had been common in our college days—a simple enchantment that made the recipient feel as if their head had been dunked in a bucket of ice water, recommended for friends falling asleep in class.

  The effect was electrifying. Knightley shot to his feet, shaking his head. His chair tipped over behind him with a loud clatter, and the two vamps, hissing, jumped back.

  The elf pouted and tossed her hair. “He was mine,” she said, as though she was in first grade and I’d taken away her candy.

  “Sorry. Come on, Knightley, let’s go.”

  “Sure. See you later,” he said to his companions. “Where did you get that spell from, Woodhouse?”

  “From you. You taught me that one in college.”

  “Yeah, but…” he followed me outside, where the polluted night air of Washington smelled almost sweet after the heavy, magic-charged atmosphere we’d just left. He took a deep breath, as though clearing his head. “I was protected. You shouldn’t have been able to break through that.”

  “Not protected enough. They were all over you like a cheap suit.”

  “Bull. I was having a good time. They were nice girls.”

  “Nice girls? Those vamps were about to have you as a late-night snack and the elf—God knows what she had in mind for you.”

  “Shall we get a cab?”

  “Don’t change the subject. No. I want to walk.”

  We walked together in silence for a while.

  “The thing is, Woodhouse,” he said as we turned onto Connecticut Avenue, “is that they were pretty potent—”

  “Aha! You admit it!”

  “Well, yeah. Okay. But I let them, to a certain extent. I was having fun.”

  “Yeah, I did notice that.”

  He ignored me. “And, as I said, I was magicked up.”

  “Sure.”

  “Sarcasm isn’t attractive, Woodhouse. So you used a very primitive spell that broke through the magic of two vamps, one elf and my protection. I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

  “I don’t. I’m not much of a field practitioner. Teaching the Theory and History of Magic 101 is about my level.” We walked up the steps to the building, and Knightley fumbled with his keys.

  “You’re saying it was a fluke?”

  “I guess.”

  Knightley held the door open and we walked into the lobby.

  “But maybe I shouldn’t have done it,” I said. “There’s an equally good spell that makes the recipient think they’re asleep and their hand is being dipped in water.”

  He grinned. “I remember that one.”

  We lingered, waiting for the elevator. “Come up to my place,” he said. “It’s early and I need a drink to wash away the taste of that blue elfin martini.”

  Why not? I was curious to see his apartment anyway.

  I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. True, there was some sort of weight-lifting arrangement on view through an open door, but the living room was furnished with a blend of antiques and dark green leather. Oriental rugs lay on the wooden parquet floor, and paintings and prints hung on the walls. Not a flat-screen TV in sight, although I suspected it was kept in the huge antique armoire against one wall.

  “This is really nice,” I said, sinking into one of the leather couches.

  Knightley handed me a glass of wine. “Is this okay?”

  “Thanks. Great furniture,” I said, wondering what we were going to talk about.

  He sat beside me. “A lot of it’s family stuff. My mother asks after you now and again. She always liked you. She said I shouldn’t have let you get away.”

  “Your mother liked me?” I couldn’t believe it. “Do you remember when we met your family for brunch? She spent half her time looking down her nose at me and the other half waiting for me to use the wrong fork.”
r />   “That’s just her way.” He shifted beside me. “Why did we break up, Emma? I never really understood it. I liked you. You liked me. And I thought, for a first time, we didn’t do so badly.”

  “It wasn’t my first time.”

  “Oh, yeah. The captain of your high-school debating team.” He made a face.

  “Chess team, actually. Wait, what are you saying, Knightley? I got your cherry?”

  He rescued my wineglass as I whooped with laughter. “Well…yeah. It was my first time. I mean, going all the way. So why did you break up with me right after?”

  “It wasn’t the sex.” I really shouldn’t be sitting next to Knightley talking about sex, whatever his taste in interior design, or, more likely, his taste in interior designers combined with a huge budget. “That was perfectly fine, in my rather limited experience at the time.”

  “Thanks. I guess.” Then he said, “I was actually rather relieved you broke up with me. You scared the hell out of me. You were so smart and self-sufficient and I felt inadequate.”

  I stared at him. “You felt inadequate? God, Knightley, if you knew how scared I was then of—of everything. I was terrified of everything, including you.”

  He gave a rueful grin. “It’s a pity we didn’t ever talk to each other properly.”

  I shook my head. “It wouldn’t have worked. We would only have gotten ourselves more scared.”

  There was a pause while I tried not to look at him. I was finding Knightley, the grown-up version, that is, disturbingly attractive.

  “I’m hungry,” he said. “How about you? I’ll get us something.”

  He went to the kitchen. In a very short time he returned with a plate of cheese and crackers and another plate of grapes and cherries. The wine bottle was tucked under one arm.

  I stood to help him. Oh, God, I was standing perilously close to him, and our knees, mine bare and his khaki clad, brushed against each other.

  I took the plates and placed them on the coffee table.

  I sat, a little farther from him, and to my surprise, talked about that night.

  “I knew it was magic. I knew that with your family you’d be able to do stuff like that at the drop of a hat. And it was great—the candles and the flowers all over the room—all those orchids and flowering vines and the music. I mean, no one has a room like that unless they’re gay and majoring in botany with a minor in drama. It was gorgeous.

  “And then I woke up in the morning and the illusion had faded. All I saw was a college kid’s room, with your socks on the floor and your lacrosse gear on the wall and…”

  “Wait. You’re saying you wouldn’t have broken up with me if I’d put my dirty socks in the hamper?”

  “No, they were last night’s socks. Mine were there, too.”

  “At least I took off my socks. You have to give me some points for finesse.”

  “You’re so obsessed with your performance. Like I said, it was okay.”

  He grimaced.

  I continued, “I thought, Why did he bespell the room with all those candles and flowers to impress me? I was scared. I couldn’t live up to those expectations. So I got up and left before you woke, and then broke up with you in the cafeteria.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, shit,” he said. “And I thought you couldn’t possibly want to have sex with me unless I put on some amazing magic show for you. I can’t believe we were both so dumb.”

  He leaned forward and kissed me.

  CHAPTER 6

  “SORRY,” WE BOTH SAID.

  Then we kissed again, a sweet welcome-home kiss after ten years apart. He still tasted as good and he made that familiar, purring sound in his throat. But he kissed now with authority, cupping the back of my head in a wonderfully gentle and possessive way, the fingers of his other hand trailing on my knee.

  “I really don’t think this is a good idea,” I said, breaking away from him.

  “Absolutely.” Knightley got very interested in the cheese and crackers and I watched his hands with some regret as they cut cheese into neat slices.

  Sighing, I took a cherry and raised it to my lips.

  He laid down the cheese knife and took my wineglass from my hand. “Allow me to assist you with that.”

  I nearly swallowed the cherry pit in my surprise as Knightley rolled me onto my back and kissed me for real, wet and hungry and urgent, our mouths open to each other, his hands at my breasts, mine clamping onto that butt I’d admired a few days ago.

  He raised his head, the cherry pit clamped between his teeth.

  “I was about to tie a knot in the stem with my tongue,” I said.

  “I’m sure you could. Shut up, Woodhouse.” He got rid of the cherry pit and we kissed some more. He felt great, hard and muscular and insistent against me, one thigh between mine. I pulled his shirt from his pants and ran my hands over the smooth skin of his back.

  His hands fumbled at the zipper the back of my neck. “Honey, you’ll have to sit up if I…”

  “You’ll have to get off me….”

  “No.” He rolled me to my side, undid the zipper in one smooth motion and fumbled at my bra strap with the other.

  “Front loader, Knightley.”

  “Nice.” My dress at waist level, he viewed my black lace bra with approval before unfastening it. “Oh, very nice,” he mumbled, my breasts in his hand.

  “You have more hair on your chest.” Having unbuttoned his shirt I shoved it off his shoulders.

  “I’m older. More mature. Much better in the sack.” He lifted my hips to get the dress, hopelessly wrinkled now, out of the way. “Pretty boring panties, Woodhouse. You weren’t planning on getting lucky tonight.”

  It was the most erotic sight in the world, Knightley kneeling between my outspread thighs, his fingers hooked in my white cotton panties, and pulling them down, the leather of the couch smooth and supple against my skin. I worried for about a tenth of a second that I might be developing a leather fetish.

  I changed my mind. The most erotic sight in the world was Knightley, with cherry smears around his mouth, bare-chested, unbuckling his belt, unzipping and freeing himself from his boxers.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” I gasped.

  “Which bit of me?” And he was on me again, and this time there were no clothes in the way, but the slide of our skin together, a perfect match, and his mouth on my breasts. He dipped his fingers between my legs and I took his cock in my hand, silky smooth, familiar. Welcome home, Knightley. We kissed again, and it was clumsy and exciting, the first time all over again, but better.

  “Wait a moment.” He snapped his fingers and muttered a few words.

  Something flew to the table, splashed into a wineglass and bounced into the brie.

  “Show-off,” I muttered as Knightley retrieved the condom. “You couldn’t have just fetched it like a normal person?”

  “What, and waste more time?” He ripped the foil open. And then he was inside me with one glorious smooth slide. “Oh, Emma. Oh, my God, you’re so lovely.” He stopped. “Is this okay?”

  I hooked my legs around his. “More than okay. Can I go on top in a bit?”

  “Sure. Anything you want. Use me. Plunder me.”

  I giggled. I’d never had sex like this with anyone, I’d never laughed while feeling that I could cry as easily, or lost track of time in the contemplation of a man’s skin and hair and smell. Yet it wasn’t perfect. We almost fell off the couch, scrambled around into other positions and knocked the plate of crackers onto the floor. He wanted to climax, I could tell from his breathing and the sweat that broke out on his chest and arms, but I wanted to savor each thrust, each long slide and retreat.

  And then I felt the urgency, too, and pressed his fingers where we were joined and rode him to a fast, hard climax that made me yelp in pleasure and surprise and a little pain, too, as everything clenched and released and clenched again.

  “God, Woodhouse,” he said, and thrust into me, his eyes widening and then fluttering clo
sed. “Oh, God, you’ll kill me.” And he went perfectly limp and laughed, just as he’d done ten years ago.

  Only now he made love like a man, not like a boy.

  After a while Knightley eased himself off me. Something warm and soft floated onto me, a throw of some sort, and I lay in a pleasant stupor, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of Knightley moving around, the toilet flushing, the click as he turned on a lamp.

  He sat on the couch next to me, lifting my legs onto his lap. I opened my eyes. To my disappointment he’d put on his boxers again, but he looked good. Really good. Even better, he’d brought more condoms with him.

  “That was nice,” he said.

  “It was.”

  He bent to pick spilled crackers from the floor. “So what happens now?”

  “We do it again?”

  “Great, but I thought we’d better have a talk about things in case I meet you in the cafeteria tomorrow and you’ve changed your mind.”

  “I doubt it. I don’t find you nearly as threatening now.” I rubbed my foot along his thigh.

  “But I don’t know if you’re ready for a relationship with me,” he said.

  “You don’t know if I’m ready?” This was an interesting reversal on the usual excuse. “What makes you think that? It wouldn’t have anything to do with Jane, or Missy, or any of the other women you’re dating?”

  “I have been dating other women. I expect you’ve had relationships with other men, too. We’re both adults. But I know I’m ready to commit myself to someone in a real relationship, when the right woman comes along. I’m just not sure whether it’s the right time for you.”

  “Oh.” I remembered how I dumped Knightley in the cafeteria, how his goofy grin had faded to a look of hurt and bewilderment. Now I knew how that felt. “And why don’t you think it’s the right time for me? What makes you think you know me better than I know myself?”

  “Okay. Let me ask you— Are you ready for a relationship with me?”

  I hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s not you, it’s with anyone. But if it was with anyone, it would be you. Probably.”

  He gave a pained grin. “See? At least you’re honest.”